


with your thirst, with my hunger

by sweetsinnerchild



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, warnings for all that comes along with a sans that murders everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7627039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsinnerchild/pseuds/sweetsinnerchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grinding for LV has never been more boring.</p>
<p>Sans gets bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with your thirst, with my hunger

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [с твоей жаждой, с моим голодом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9604649) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> inspired by dropout-dropdead's [art](http://dropout-dropdead.tumblr.com/post/146490281025/criticize-the-shit-outta-everything-murdersans)
> 
> title from juramidam by nick mulvey, it's kinda catchy

The thing is, they’re all you.

The clothes, the face, the way they call out for their own Papyruses to run, to escape, never knowing that always, always, you’ll leave Papyrus for last. Perhaps it’s poetic, killing the last one first and the first one last, or perhaps it’s sentiment, letting what was once a brother be the gravestone of a kingdom.

Or perhaps it’s simply easier, because you know how quickly your past self would have fought with no silly promises binding you, and how dear Papyrus, sweet Papyrus would never, ever raise a bone against you.

But it gets boring. You jump and kill, jump and kill, jump and kill. You kill that world’s Sans in his bed and its Papyrus last in the middle of the forest -

( _Dust in the air, and you’re staring down, staring down._

_“It’s okay, Sans.”_ )

No, that’s not right. You kill its Papyrus last wherever he manages to run off to, but you always kill him quickly. No need for sentiments. 

No need to hear him cry. 

But you’re feeling this endless itch that can’t quite be scratched, the way the world presses in around you, rigid and immobile. You don’t know how high your LV is building, but the repetition is driving you insane, because where’s the end to this? When can you stop?

(There’s no end, your level may go up and up and up and all the human has to do is reset. All they do is reset.

**_You just need to get stronger._** )

You just need to try something new. After all, you’ve always wondered whether all of the Sans you have been killing is really _you_. Something set you apart from the rest of them, led you to gain Determination while they stayed in their pitiful loops, always giving up and never breaking free. Nothing really matters, and all.

They’re all you, except they’re all fools.

But that’s not enough. You need to know what made you different, what set you apart. You want to know whether it can be replicated, you want to know if it can be prevented. You want to know yourself, and what better way to do that by studying yourself?

So you change it up. You can’t study dead-and-dusted monsters after all.

Who knows, keeping yourself alive might just be the challenge. 

* * *

Not killing has become difficult, but you’ve finally done it. This world’s Sans sits before you, tethered to the middle of the room by a hook and two sturdy coils of rope. He stares up at you, angry and fearful.

“papyrus, keep a look out,” you say, squatting down to take a closer look. Confusion flickers over your double’s face as your brother, silent and disembodied, phases through the wall. You pay him no mind as you run a finger down his jawline, considering how much it looks like yours.

He jerks back, eye sockets wide and panicked.

“what the fuck are you doing,” he says, leaning away from you as far as he can. The ropes strain at his wrists. “what the fuck - ”

“calm down,” you soothe him. It sounds more like an order, but it doesn’t matter - he only struggles harder as you pull him in closer by his jacket for a better look. He really is you, you marvel, right down to the very texture of his bones - but you need to be sure.

You need to confirm.

“no, no, _no_ -”

\- but you pay him no attention as the sharpened bone construct materialises, solid in your hand. He thrashes in your grip, trying to get away like a fly swaddled in a spider’s web would, but you only have to curl your fingers around the narrow column of his cervical vertebrae, right below his skull.

He freezes. You take the opportunity to hook the sharp end of the bone into the soft material of his shirt, and slash. It falls away, baring his ribs and you lean in.

The scar is not there. You have a scar, running diagonally down your chest, a mark that the human had carved into your very bones reset after reset after reset.

This is not you.

(Not yet.)

You trail a finger over where the scar should be, would be, and this world’s Sans (so pure, so _unbroken_ ) shivers.

(God, you want to break yourself, dashing yourself against the rocks of your sins.)

“God, I want to break you,” you breathe, and relish the way _his-your-his_ eyelights contract into little white pinpricks of fear.

You cut away his shorts, the tattered black cloth falls away, discarded onto the floor. He leans desperately away, but only into the tight grip of your hand, and tugs harshly at the ropes binding him, trapping him in your web. If only he was smarter, if only he realised that he should have killed you the moment he set eyes on you - if only he was you.  

That’s the beauty of choice, you decide, getting comfortable and slotting a leg in between his. The rough cloth of your shorts, coarse with the dust of those you have killed brushes against his bare pelvis as you crook it up, just barely, almost as if he’s sitting on the slope of your thigh. He could choose to give up, or he could choose to give in to what would be eventually be inevitable. 

Either decision would be acceptable. The only thing that matters is that you are there to see it.

“stop it,” he’s saying, his voice inflecting upwards into panic, “stop it, you’re me, stop this - “

_Too many words_ , you decide, and kiss him quiet.

Your tongue curls into his mouth, licking in and invading. Any protests are instantly muffled, and you maintain your grip on his neck, a fair warning just in case he decides to bite down. He doesn’t.

The bone is flung away, and you let your hand skim over his ribcage where you _know_ they’ll be sensitive, featherlight over the sternum and dragging heavy round the curves. He makes a sound into your mouth, a gasp-whimper, and you repeat the action over and over at varying speeds. Is this what you’ll look like, you wonder absently as he squirms under the too-light touches, trying and failing to hold himself still and unaffected. Maybe it’s narcissism that makes you want to…

Something manifests, curling up against your tongue. You withdraw, the barest smirk of satisfaction on your face, catching a flash of blue before he snaps his mouth shut, chagrined.

“open up,” you demand, soft and low.

He refuses.

You remove your hand from where it had been trailing circles down his back, bringing it up to press against the right canine of his teeth, slowly pressing in and in and in. The pressure is surely uncomfortable, and your grip does not allow him the liberty to wince away.

“open up,” you repeat, _or else_.

Slowly, slowly, he drops his jaw. His manifested tongue shines blue in the dim cavern of his mouth.

“good,” you praise, and slip your fingers into his mouth. 

The tongue lies, stiff and immobile. It’s soft and warm when you press down on it, and your fingers come away wet. You draw them slowly out of his mouth before sliding them back in, twisting them back and forth, in a pale imitation of what will happen. 

You see the way his jaw tense. Before he can bite down, you snatch your fingers out of his mouth. The teeth clamp down on empty air, and you smile placidly at his frustration.

“that wasn’t very nice,” you chide.

You let go of his neck. He breathes in, almost as if he had been holding his breath, right before you backhand him right across the face.

The momentum of the slap twists his body, forcing it to swing heavy to the side. You pull him back, your spit-slick fingers leaving a messy trail down the side of his skull.

“do that again,” you say simply, “and i’ll kill your brother in front of you.”

The threat works. Maybe it’s because this version of him hasn’t had the experience of seeing his own brother die over and over and over, you think idly. He holds himself still as you let go, letting your fingers wander down to the base of his spine, tracing the outlines of his pelvis, letting the tips of your thumbs dip down the curve of his ilium and sketch a circle back up.

His legs are tense, you notice absently, but he has made nary a sound or protest.

Admirable.

(Stubborn.)

Time to up the game.

“kiss me,” you say, and lean in. His tongue is still there; you want to see him use it, want to feel the warmth in your own mouth. One of your hands cups him in the back, fingers reaching down to gently scratch at his tailbone, a repeated motion that you have done to yourself plenty of times. You also know that he needs the pressure to be heavier, the rough scrape of bone against bone much more pleasurable for him.

He leans forward stiffly, and clinks his teeth against yours. In the motion, you can feel the way his body vibrates like a high note on a tense string, can feel the way he’s holding back when he clearly wants more. 

“kiss me like you mean it,” you clarify, and lick at his teeth as a demonstration.

His tongue darts out,  swiping hard across your teeth, like he’s compensating for his reluctance with force.

Good enough. You palm his coccyx roughly as a reward, and he jerks, his body tipping heavy into yours. Your other hand leaves his pelvis to twist at the base of his spine and he chokes.

"let it out,” you murmur, a curl of dark satisfaction sitting in your ribcage at his countenance, full of loathing and want. A beautiful counterpoint to the underlying melody of despair. “let go." 

Your hands move faster, fingers reaching and scratching into his pubis, pushing him down against your knee - until he finally, finally moans. 

"there we go,” you say, and savour the very moment you see his resolve shatter under his own body’s betrayal.

**Author's Note:**

> [psst! need more chapters?](http://www.sweetsinnerchild.tumblr.com/)


End file.
